Emilea
by 10111993
Summary: There were the humans, the elves, the dwarves, and the hobbits. But what if there were others? Others unlike anything these four races had seen. This is the story of Emilea, and how she comes to know the Fellowship. Set in a Post-series world. Be warned, the plot may not be as immediately gratifying as you'd like it to be.


*WARNING: I have not read LoTR in awhile, and thus am not taking the details to heart here. If you have a problem with that don't read this story. I am taking liberties with my interpretation. That said, I do not own any of the recognizable characters in this story, or anything of the Tolkien universe.

Snow fell lightly as Emilea trotted through the woods, powdering her surroundings in an ethereal silence. She rode a roan mare, acquired just two days prior. A light layering of flakes rested on her cloak, though it did no more than to feather her garments. Together, they were the only two beings in the woods, a pallid woodland of both little light and little shadow. Emilea guided her mount through the trees, weaving through the twisted, grey trunks at a weary pace. While it was late, the snow filled sky remained a steady, muted color which illuminated the landscape. The repetitiveness gave her a headache.

"Good girl." Emilea was reaching down to pat her mount when the mare sidled sideways, throwing her off balance enough to disconcert her. Hauling herself up, she snatched the dagger out of her belt with clumsy hands. By the time she had regained control of the mare, whatever had spooked her had disappeared and the horse allowed her rider to reassert control. Shaken, Emilea scanned her surroundings while she clutched her knife with white knuckles. No unaccounted shadows, no slight movements in her periphery vision - Emilea let out a breath as a sixth scan revealed nothing unusual. "It's just a squirrel," she muttered to herself, but absentmindedly brushed her bangs out of her eyes in nervous habit. Inexperienced and vulnerable, the nineteen year old had left the small village of Quagsmire almost two days ago with little more than a rucksack of food and a lifetime of village habitation to aid her. The smell of smoke still permeated her clothes despite the cold wind which had blown relentlessly over the moors. Even as her mind was torn with these thoughts Emilea hunched down in her saddle, drawing the grey wool around her yet tighter. Grey. Everything was grey. Her breath, which misted the air in front of her, also faded into the monotonous landscape. It was rather eery, she thought, the way the trees seemed to repeat themselves.

Though she tried not to entertain the last thought, a nagging doubt tugged at her stomach. No map, and only the lingering memory of a childhood story to go on, the likelihood of her escaping the valley was rapidly decreasing with every sway of the saddle.

Despite the reflected light which the snow brought her, the sun would descend soon and fall back behind the mountains, further reducing navigation. Besides, she was tired, stiff and hungry, not to mention that her mount needed a break. Cold and hours of exposure had melded her calves and thighs to the saddle. Underneath the cowl of her cloak, black lashes frosted white barred green eyes from view.

The stillness that accompanied the delicate flakes was only interrupted by the muffled footsteps of her horse and the crunch of ice underneath. Perhaps she would rest her eyes for a moment - Bella, her mount, knew where they were going. With a sigh, Emelia hooked the reins around her wrist and settled into the saddle, letting the world fall away from her until even the sound of her breath had given way to the arms of sleep.

She slept for five hours, a listless form swaying on the back of her horse as the roan picked her way through the rocky undergrowth. The ground had steepened, gradually rising up until it was at a constant diagonal with the trees. Dusk had fallen, and shadows everywhere lengthened and multiplied.

Emelia was thrust rudely into consciousness by an abrupt feeling of wrongness. Perhaps it was the shifting of her mares muscles underneath, or perhaps it was the change in light - the young woman did not know precisely what had woken her. Bella was hardly as awake as her rider, raising her head up with a startled snort as Emelia pulled her to a halt. They both listened in silence, though the roan's ears flickered back and forth nervously. The air felt colder and crisper than when the teen had fallen asleep, but Emelia knew that could just as well be a result of the lingering hallucinatory embrace of sleep. Underneath her, Bella shifted and dropped her left flank as she relaxed. "Shhhh, woah girl," Emilea whispered, leaning forward to maintain her balance. Bella snorted, blowing air out her nostrils. Emelia suppressed a smile, trying to remain focused on her surroundings. She knew what these woods could hold - she remembered the "indoor days" her mother would sometimes suggest when she was younger. "Let's play inside today," her mother had said, herding her into the kitchen. She hadn't questioned why her mother always shut and bolted the windows those days, nor why her father and siblings always came back bloody, or the one day her father didn't come back at all.'. Emilea was unwilling to pay the price of ignorance again.

The air - Emilea shivered once before realizing that a stiff wind had risen in the distance. A storm perhaps - she would have to seek shelter. Looking at the terrain, she realized that she would have to get off and walk, if not for her mount's sheer exhaustion then for the danger presented to both of them by the wet rocks.

Gripping Bella's mane, Emilea swung her leg over an dropped to the ground. She was immediately met with a sharp tingling and throbbing in her legs which had her stumbling into the tree behind her.

Pulling the reins over Bella's head, Emelia began to make her way up the mountain.

Above the protection of the trees, the air was cold and the wind bitter and cutting. Emilea found herself pressing against the meager warmth Bella offered only to find herself still mind-numbingly cold. The cloak, made of wool as it was, could not protect her from the elements. The narrow ledge which they traveled along circumvented more treacherous portions of the mountain but was laid bare to the sky and any threats from above. Hours had passed and they had yet to cross the center of the range. Her hope was rapidly dwindling, and the whispers of doubt in her head threatened to halt her altogether. She was exhausted both physically and mentally, hurt (after having fallen on a slope awhile back), and had not been able to feel her extremities in some time. Neither did the visage give much confidence - they had wound higher and higher up the mountain but had yet to reach a decline or flat stretch of any sorts, which indicated the distance yet to go to the other side of the mountain. Another gust of wind blew and Emilea shut her eyes, relying on her hands to guide her along the edge. Behind her Bella snorted nervously. Emilea only hoped that they would be able to make it to the other side. Muttering a prayer under her breath, she shuffled forwards.

Emilea felt an immense weight lift off of her shoulders when they reached the first tree growth, filled with an almost unassailable hope. And it was wonderfully, wonderfully warm down there. For a moment at lest, she could forget the dangers and stresses which still awaited her and the past from which she was escaping. She had made it over the mountain, and that was the only thing that mattered.

Emilea squeezed Bella into a trot, eager to regain the pace prior to the mountain. She almost missed the slight vibration of the ground until Bella stumbled. Then a large crash sounded and Emilea turned around to see an orc making its way through the tree trunks, swinging its club and smashing trunks to move through the forest.

Emilea let out a scream as the orc swung his club at her, ducking the vicious attack as Bella tensed beneath her. The next moment Bella reared and Emilea slid sideways out of the saddle. Panicking, she attempted to pull herself up but the mare was already moving, loosening her group on the leather and unbalancing her further. the roan was galloping headlong through the trees; Emilea let out a breathless grunt as her shoulder smacked into a tree trunk. The sound of crashing undergrowth increased both of their efforts - the foliage was a blur as the mare flew past it, Emilea half off of the saddle and hanging on for dear life. The seconds stretched on, and the nineteen year old's muscles became increasingly weaker. Unable to dodge the trunks and branches of the trees, she hit each trunk as they blurred past and her grip loosened still further. Cold and clammy, her fingers refused to take direction - the cold trek over the mountain pass had frozen them into a curled position.

The crashing became louder, and the last thing Emilea knew was something hitting her back and the feeling of weightlessness as she was thrown into the air. Then she hit the ground.

Sounds and sensation trickled into her consciousness first - the hollow echo of the wind, the rustle of the leaves she recognized, but the crackle of fire and the low murmur of voices she did not. Considering she was not on that fire, and untied, she had somehow found her way into better company. Even as she became aware of the fact that she could feel her extremities again, her injuries began to make themselves known. Curious as she was to observe her new companions, she could not help the groan that escaped her lips. Abruptly, the murmur of conversation halted, and the sound of approaching footsteps filled her ears. Emilea opened her eyes just as the owner reached her.

"N'eathreal?" (Are you well?)

"Huhnng?" She slurred. Apparently her body hadn't quite regained all of its coordination.

"Are you well?" The stranger asked, this time so that Emilea could understand him.

Squinting, Emilea tried to see the man who spoke to her but her eyes were ill-adjusted to the dark coming out of unconsiousness.

"Umm…" All words seem to escape her. A low chuckle, and then a "Here," followed. With their help, Emilea managed to sit up but she leaned helplessly on the hand on the small of her back. A deep throbbing and paralyzing weakness pervaded her body which had not been as obvious laying down. She turned to look at her aider.

There were two of them, the first of whom was kneeling next to her. His face, though cautious, was open. Untamed, wavy black hair framed his face and numerous scars under vaguely blue eyes hinted at his history of battle. He was kneeling next to her, sword on his hip and mud packed armor still encasing his torso. A few yards back, another man stood. Emilea inhaled sharply as she realized that this was an elf - long limbed and with the youthful appearance of a man many centuries younger, he stood further back with his bow aimed at her cautiously. He was beautiful, of course. All the stories that she had been told regaled their beauty and wisdom. Bright blue eyes looked back at her piercingly. Intimidated, she decided to look back at the black haired man next to her. Though bearing the face of violence, he appeared more friendly than his companion.

"What were you doing around these parts, if I may ask my lady? We don't often see anyone here." Though friendly, his voice held an undertone of guardedness.

"Seeking refuge," she replied simply. The man squinted as if he were accessing her. She remained silent, looking at the ground in front of her. She didn't look up until the man next to her stood up and walked over to the elf. It was all still fresh - in her mind, she could see the village, children running in its streets and men bartering their goods as they went about their day unwittingly. Not knowing that in only a few hours, the walls would be shattered and the houses up in smoke, the children that had been running now lying on the ground as if asleep. Just as suddenly as she was warm she was cold again. The bark which she leaned up against pressed painfully into her sin but she could not find it in herself to make herself comfortable. Comfortable would be remembering. And she didn't want to remember.

To distract herself, she tried to decipher the conversation between the man and elf, but it was a murmur. She raised her eyes up as the conversation came to an end. Both approached this time; Emilea tried not to waver under the blond elf's cold demeanor.

The black haired warrior spoke first; "I am Aragorn, of Rohan, and this is Legolas of Mirkwood." _Noble names._ "We would not leave you in the woods here my lady; we are on our way to Rivendell, where you can find refuge. Pray tell, what is your name?"

"Emilea." Emilea had an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Were they really so generous as to take her in without a question? But then again, she was a woman. As it was, she had no other option.

"My name…is Emilea."

Emilea drifted in and out of consciousness the next two days as her body slowly healed and she began to regain her strength. Nevertheless, she still found herself spooning soup into her mouth with a trembling hand. She traveled in front of the man known as Aragorn, sitting sideways on the saddle.

"You are rather young to be alone out here," Aragorn's deep voice startled her out of her daze.

"Where do you come from?"

"Drendale, on the other side of the mountain"

"I have not heard of any people out here; we are more than a week from the nearest post," Aragorn commented neutrally.

"We are isolated; until today I thought your friend was a legend," she admitted, feeling Aragorn's chest move as he rumbled out a laugh. Legolas, for his part, traveled ahead of them and maintained a few horse lengths away, out of conversational earshot.

"Hmm." Aragorn let the conversation settle at that, and the rest of the day passed in silence.

They made camp some hours after sundown, afforded a small fire by the sheltering walls of the hills. Emilea was still so stiff that Aragorn had to lift her off though she could now manage walking on her own. Legolas, who had still not spoken one word to her, maintained watch while Aragorn prepared the ground. Emilea observed both, wishing that she could help in some way. Her body was healing even slower than she anticipated, though having been hit in the back by an orc club she shouldn't have expected anything else. Aragorn had taken responsibility for checking her healing, carefully lifting her shirt to a modest way in order to access her injury each night.

She was relieved that both Aragorn and Legolas seemed to be honorable men; she was incredibly grateful for their care, though it had been mostly Aragorn who had interacted with her. Occasionally Legolas would send unreadable glances her way, as if he were accessing her. _If these damned bruises would just hurry up and heal I would be able to show them my trustworthiness, _she thought. As it was, she wasn't anywhere near a danger to them in the active sense. She was keenly aware, however, that her reliance on both the men made her a hindrance.

They ate a hare over the fire, the greasy flesh and bubbling fat filling their mouths with flavor and burning them the roofs. Finally, Emilea wrapped herself up in her cloak and lay down carefully on her side. Even without doing anything she was exhausted. Unused to such injuries, she had forgotten how much energy the body put into healing. Apart from her youth when she had witnessed her mother stitching her father and brothers up, Emilea had been desperately shielded from violence. Even hunting she was barred from, thought secretly she would try to catch squirrels or birds in the village streets. In hindsight, there wasn't much that she could have done, but every time she was denied as a child she would react by acting out. One time she did not speak to her father for a week.

None of this was anything Emilea wanted to muse on, so she quickly turned her thoughts towards Legolas. Okay, so maybe trying to figure out why he was so attractive wasn't the best diversion - she should be trying to get to sleep anyway. Across from her, snores rose from where Aragorn lay. Tomorrow would be just as stenuous, and she was determined to heal as fast as possible. Being indebted to strangers was not something which she was particularly fond of. She had always preferred self sufficiency over any other quality of character.

With a sigh, she rolled over again (carefully) and closed her eyes. "Good night," she whispered, and fell promptly asleep before she could hear the answering "good night" which drifted down from the hill.


End file.
